time enough
by Girl in a White Dress
Summary: Jack Bristow cries.


Disclaimer: Not my characters, alas.  
A/N: Character death.

It comes as something of a surprise to realize she's not immortal, Jack thinks. For a moment he's frozen in position. All he sees is her fall to the floor, an action he knows will be replayed in his mind over and over again until it's his turn to die. The noise of the gunfire fades into silence; there is only her gasping for breath.

Somehow, he finds himself kneeling at her side. She looks up at him, her eyes wide and scared

(and he remembers holding her hand in the delivery room, and she'd been scared and in pain then but it was nothing like this)

and he takes her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. She closes her eyes, her lips pressed together, sweat beading on her forehead.

"How bad?" Her voice is barely a whisper, and for a brief moment he allows himself to hope that he is wrong, that she is immortal, but then he looks at the wound in her stomach.

Exit wounds are nasty, and this one no different. Shot in the back, by a coward. Jack takes some satisfaction that the coward is already dead, a bullet between the eyes; a quicker end than he deserved.

"Jack?" Less than a whisper, barely a breath.

Now is not the time for lies. He pulls her closer, brushing her hair out of her face.

"I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

He thinks she smiles, but it's more likely a grimace of pain.

"Does it hurt much?" Stupid question, of course it hurts. Idiot, he thinks, shut up.

But there is so much to say

(I love you, I forgive you, I'm sorry)

and so little time to say it in.

Any minute now his back-up will arrive and want to know what happened: a dead agent, a dying terrorist, and Jack sitting between them. Regardless, the mission will be classed as successful – one less person on the Most Wanted List.

No, he thinks. She deserves a better death.

He stands, awkwardly lifting her, and holds her close as he leaves the alley. Her breath is soft and warm on his neck, and painfully familiar

(Oh, Jack, yes, like that . . .)

He blinks back tears. Her blood is soaking his shirt and this whole situation is just so damn wrong he wants to tell her she's not allowed to die, not this time, not yet.

It doesn't work like that.

And so, this is how the story goes: two agents go into a situation blind, attempting to retrieve a Rambaldi artifact – because, of course, it all comes down to Rambaldi – only to discover someone has beaten them to it. This person fires at agent #1, who goes down after getting off a single shot. Here's where things get a little fuzzy. Agent #2 chases after the shooter, but loses him/her. Agent #2, whose memory is usually perfect, is somehow unable to furnish further details, or to satisfactorily explain why it took him three hours to report in.

(And there is a knock at the door. Two policemen. Rain in the background. Flashing lights. "I'm so sorry to have to tell you this.")

This is what the official reports do not say:

Jack steals a car and gently places her in the back seat. He drives away, just slow enough to avoid being pulled over. He talks to her, though he's not sure she can still hear him. He talks and talks, the way he hasn't in years, not since they were dating and wanted to know everything about each other. He tells her about Sydney and ballet recitals and little Dominic O'Keehan who broke their baby's heart in the fifth grade.

Eventually he stops the car and climbs into the back seat, somewhat surprised she's still breathing. Her skin is feverish under his touch. Her eyelids flutter open and her lips curve ever so slightly; this time he knows she's smiling. She raises her hand to his face, but isn't strong enough to hold it up. He catches it before it falls and presses it to his cheek.

"Always."

He's afraid to ask what that means. Instead, he moves her hand and kisses her palm, and thinks about how much he hates Milo Fucking Rambaldi. No artifact in the world is worth this price.

"Irina—"

Her head lolls against his chest and he doesn't move, hoping to feel her breath.

She's completely still.

(At the funeral he holds his daughter's hand and doesn't cry, because Sydney is only six years old and she needs her daddy to be strong.)

He looks down at the woman who has held his heart longer than he wants to admit. This woman, who with just a tilt of her head could bring him to his knees, whose smile was enough to brighten his day, who had given him everything he ever wanted and took it all away again.

He wonders, if he'd believed in second chances, would tonight have ended differently?

He never had enough time with Laura and he knows, now, that he never had enough time with Irina either.

Jack Bristow cries.

1/1


End file.
